


Five Goals

by scintilla10



Category: Breakfast with Scot
Genre: M/M, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla10/pseuds/scintilla10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Eric McNally didn't see the puck go in the net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Goals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/gifts).



_Paul Henderson, 1972_

On the morning of the final game of the series, Mrs Brookner wheeled the TV from the library into the gymnasium and asked two of the older boys to help her hook up the speakers she'd brought from home.

Mr Davies didn't make their class do spelling even though that's what they usually did on Thursday mornings. He let them have free drawing time instead, and immediately almost everyone started on banners to show their support of Team Canada. Eric drew Phil Esposito and Paul Henderson streaking down the ice toward the Soviet goal, their red and white jerseys flying out behind them.

Eric's class filed into the gym along with all the other students in the school. Everyone was talking, and the gym was loud with excitement. Eric couldn't stop his leg from jiggling even when his class was seated right in the centre. His sister Joanie was on the left with her kindergarten class, and Eric didn't even get annoyed when she waved enthusiastically at him.

Eric had been following the games for weeks now, and listening to his dad go over every last detail at the dinner table, and re-enacting the goals with his friends at peewee hockey. He was even starting to feel comfortable with the strange-sounding Soviet names: Petrov, Tretiek, Yakushev. Even though they didn't play in the NHL (and were communists, though Eric didn't exactly know what that meant) they were _really good_ players. They were big and strong and fast, and Team Canada had been struggling to keep up with them all throughout the tournament. Eric's dad had been so furious after they lost Game 4 that he'd stabbed his steak knife through a picture of the Canadian team in the newspaper, pinning it to the table. It had made Joanie cry.

Eric's bum went numb from sitting on the floor of the gym, but he barely noticed. During the breaks between periods, Mrs Brookner made the whole school stand up and do jumping jacks to get their blood pumping again. By the time they sat back down again they were all laughing and breathless.

By the end of the third period, the score was tied. But Eric knew -- they all knew -- that it wasn't good enough. The way the points stood, Team Canada needed to win this game in order to win the series.

The seconds were ticking down. There was under a minute left.

Every single person in the gym was silent, straining their eyes towards the flickering TV. Eric kept his body perfectly, perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. This was it. Time was almost up --

The Canadians were right at the Soviet net, struggling to get a goal in the final few seconds --

Eric sneezed.

He _sneezed_ just as something really important happened and his entire elementary school surged up, pulling Eric to his feet with them.

It took him a few seconds to figure out what had happened.

"Did we win?" Eric said blankly. The kid next to him yelled something and gripped Eric's arm. Eric could barely hear him over the wild and exhilarated shouts of disbelief echoing in the gym. Under the basketball net, Mr Davies and Mrs Brookner were holding on to one another and jumping up and down. They both had tears streaming down their faces. "We _won_!" Eric repeated, stunned.

Team Canada had just scored. Paul Henderson had snagged a rebound with 34 seconds left on the clock and snapped the puck into the Soviet net. And Eric had just missed seeing the winning goal.

There were replays, obviously. In fact, over the course of his life, Eric saw footage from that game countless times. But that night at dinner, Eric's dad's eyes settled on him with unusual sharpness and he asked Eric what he thought of the last-minute goal. Eric had blinked back at him. Eric's dad never asked his opinion about anything. He barely listened to Eric at all, even when it was about hockey.

"It was amazing," Eric said, and he felt flushed-warm and itchy under his collar when his dad smiled approvingly at him.

 

 _Wayne Gretzky, 1983_

"Come on, man," Daletsky muttered. "We're gonna miss it."

Their Junior B team had cut practice short to go down to Toronto for the game. The Leafs were playing the Oilers; they were going to be totally pulverized, but no one wanted to miss the chance to see Wayne Gretzky on the ice. Eric had been excited about the game for weeks.

But here he was, still in the empty locker room, an hour's bus ride from Maple Leaf Gardens, with his pants around his ankles and his dick in Rick Daletsky's hand.

"Shit," Eric gasped and came in a hot wet stripe all over Daletsky's palm.

Daletsky wiped his hand on a towel and tossed it to the floor.

"Thanks," he said. His face was still flushed faintly pink, and Eric had to fight the urge to lean over and lick the sweat off his neck.

"Yeah," he managed.

He was still trying to catch his breath when the locker room door slammed open, and Fischer said, "Hey, McNally, Daletsky, are you still he --" and then he and Girard stopped dead in the doorway.

Eric stared back at them for a minute before belatedly pulling up his pants and stuffing his still-sensitive dick out of sight.

They were gone seconds later, Girard red-faced and stumbling, and Fischer disgusted and glaring.

Daletsky just shrugged. "This is what you want?" he said. "Then that -- " a nod towards the locker room door " -- is what you get."

On his way home, Eric gave his ticket to the first person on the street who looked like a hockey fan. According to the paper the next day, the Oilers had swept the ice with the Leafs, but Eric spent the night pounding his fists into the punching bag in his parents' basement.

Two days later at practice, he slammed Fischer into the boards with enough force to give him a black eye. The rest of his teammates had already been looking at him sideways, and now they stopped talking to him at all. Except Daletsky, who treated him the same as ever, and Eric was careful to ensure that he didn't find himself alone in a room with Daletsky again.

His teammates still refused to meet his eyes when he made the Junior As next season. Eric never looked back.

 

 _Mats Sundin, 2002_

Eric rolled his shoulders gingerly, but it didn't really help. He was still stiff and uncomfortable as he walked into the MVP box. It was unnerving and unnatural to be dressed in a suit and looking down on the Leafs' rink instead of _being_ down there in the centre of it all, feeling the ice under his blades, hearing it in his bones, tasting it in his blood. He missed it like an ache in his chest, and it was hard to remember why he'd decided to come that night at all.

It was the first time he'd been back to the rink since the accident. He'd been tense the whole day: he'd nicked himself shaving, gotten lost on the way to his mid-morning physio, and then spilled the beer he'd pulled out of the fridge to calm himself down on his best dress shirt.

He had to keep himself from grimacing as he shook hands with the usual faces and awkwardly side-stepped all the questions about how he was healing.

The first period was barely over when one of the club owners said, "McNally! Glad to see you're back. That arm of yours holding up all right? I think you've met Sam Miller, yeah? He's been doing damn fine work for me lately, damn fine!" and Eric blinked and turned around, and there was Sam.

Sam smiled at him in that mild way of his and held out his hand. Eric stared.

The club owner coughed.

"Right, of course," Eric said, all in a rush. "Sure."

He shook Sam's hand and then dropped it as quickly as possible.

Eric had met Sam on the flat of his back in a hospital bed. Eric had been there for almost a week after his surgery, and his increasingly bad temper had chased off his friends, his teammates, his sister, and most of the nursing staff. Sam, who was a junior associate at the law firm working Eric's case, barely even blinked when Eric responded in a way that practically inhuman.

He even came back the next day with a few papers he'd forgotten to get to Eric sign and an espresso that had not originated in a vending machine. Eric could have fallen in love with him then and there.

Until Sam ruined it by openly admitting to being a Habs fan.

"What?" Eric sputtered around the mouthful of hot coffee that now tasted of dark and bitter betrayal. " _What?_ You cheer for the _Montreal Canadiens_?"

Sam lifted his eyebrow casually. "I grew up in Montreal," he said.

It took almost half an hour for Sam to eventually admit that he didn't actually follow hockey. From the way Sam's eyes were crinkling, Eric was belatedly sure that he'd said it to get a rise out of Eric.

"Did you know who I was before the firm sent you over here?" Eric said.

"No," Sam said, and then shot him a look. "Sorry."

Eric had grinned at him. "It's all right," he said. "I forgive you."

And he'd realized abruptly that was the first time since the accident he'd felt human. There he was, sitting up in bed and talking about hockey of all goddamn things, and he hadn't once felt the pit of aching loss in his chest or the sputter of frustrated anger in his gut.

He'd blinked up at Sam in amazement. Sam looked like a dream come true with his wavy dark hair and his impeccable suit, even under the garish hospital lighting. There was a small smile tugging at his mouth and a gleam to his warm brown eyes, and his whole presence, just him being there, sparked something warm and bright in Eric in response.

And now here was Sam again, standing in front of him like a goddamn wet dream in the worst possible place Eric could imagine running into him again, and Eric wanted to go dunk his own head in a bucket of ice water and never come out.

Eric didn't know what he said, but he got out of there fast and stumbled into the bathroom.

He braced his arms against the sink and stared for a long moment at his reflection.

Sam found him there ten minutes later. Of course.

"The second period's starting," he said. As if Eric couldn't tell by the noise of the crowd.

"Right, yeah," he said.

He looked up after a moment of silence to find Sam watching him in the mirror. "Do you want to get out of here?" Sam asked.

That surprised a quick smile out of Eric. "That's your best line?" he said without thinking, and was immediately sorry. If Sam wasn't -- if he'd read this all wrong --

But Sam just said, "Is it working?"

When he'd left his apartment that afternoon, Eric had just wanted, desperately, for things to be normal again. For him to be able to hang out and watch the Leafs play and forget that he'd lost his chance. Forget that he'd taken his shot and not only missed entirely, but tumbled helmet over skates into a humiliated heap at centre ice. If he wasn't playing hockey, if he wasn't a hockey player, then, well then, maybe, maybe he could be someone who would go home with someone like Sam.

Sam drove. He turned the radio on to listen to the game in the car, without saying a word and without looking at Eric. But a quick smile flashed over his face when Eric turned it off just as Sundin scored.

It had been a long time since Eric had had sex with someone in a bed; it had been a long time since he'd done anything beyond fast and dirty locker-room blowjobs or anonymous one-night-only hook-ups. Sam's apartment, though, looked lived-in and loved. He had art on the wall and fruit on the counter and pieces of furniture that Eric was pretty sure he'd scratch just by looking at them.

Sam kissed him, his mouth hot and eager on Eric's, and his hands deftly removed Eric's clothes. Eric felt awkward and ungainly with his shoulder still unused to sudden movement, and he tried to make it up by kissing Sam fervently, his tongue flicking at the fold of Sam's lips and curling inside when Sam opened for him. Sam made a small, impatient growl, and Eric could feel the sound of it reverberate against his mouth and shudder down the length of his body to pool in his hardening cock.

Eric liked the way Sam moved: quick and sure and confident. He liked Sam's lanky body and his warm eyes and the wheezy laugh he made when Eric brushed a hand over his ribs. He liked the softness of Sam's sheets and the yellow glow from the lamp next to Sam's bed.

Sam spread his legs wide and drew Eric's hand between them, his eyes caught on Eric's. He gasped when Eric pushed inside and then lifted his hips, urging Eric to move. Eric had to stop and stare blindly down at him. Sam's hair curled damply around his ears and along the long line of his neck; he was flushed and sexy and impatient, and Eric thought, _He isn't a dream at all._.

At the hospital, Sam hadn't said "We'll miss you, man," like his teammates, or "There are worse things in the world than not playing hockey, Eric," like his sister, or "You were a great fighter," like the nurse on the night shift who hadn't come back after Eric bit her head off. He hadn't said anything except, "I have to come back on Friday at noon with the paperwork from the League. Do you like pastrami or turkey?"

That had been the moment Eric knew he was doomed.

 

 _Ryan Burlington, 2007_

"Eric, Eric! Let me talk to him!" There was a scuffling sound, and then Scot's voice came loud and clear over Sam's cell. "Eric, you won't believe what you're missing!"

It had been a long day of interviews and conferences and game tape, and Eric was about ready to fall into bed with his shoes on. But he smiled as leaned against the door of his hotel room and pressed the phone right up against his ear. "Okay, what am I missing?"

"Joey told me that Coach Wilson said the Tigers are the scariest, toughest, meanest opponent this team will ever face! It might even be a massacre!" Scot's voice got even higher with excitement and Eric winced in sympathy for all eardrums in the vicinity.

"Ew," came Carla's distorted voice. "Does that mean there's gonna be _blood_? If there's a lot of blood I might throw up."

"Coach Wilson did not tell Joey it would be a massacre," Eric said firmly.

"I think he meant it like a metaphor," Scot said authoritively to Carla. "But it still might be sort of bloody!" Then, to Eric: "There must be five thousand people here!"

"There aren't five thousand people here," and that was Sam's amused voice in the background. "I don't think there are even five hundred."

"Well, there are _a lot_ ," Scot said breathlessly. "Are you sure you won't be able to make it, Eric? I saved you a seat with my scarf just in case."

Eric knew exactly which scarf Scot meant; it was purple and green and had beads dangling from the fringe-y bits at the end. Eric hated it. Scot loved it.

"I wish I could be there," he said. He'd stayed on as assistant coach, even after Scot's inauspicious retirement from the league -- by that time they were far more than just "Scot's team" -- and Eric hadn't missed a single game. Until now.

There was another scuffle for the phone, and Sam won that time because his quiet voice said, "Hey."

"Hi."

"How's women's soccer?"

"Oh, you know. They play games, they score goals. It's pretty much the same as any other sport you pretend to have an interest in for my sake."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Hey! I'll have you know that my skills on the horseshoe pit is the stuff of Miller family legend."

Even in a lonely hotel room in Ottawa, Eric could picture the sly look on Sam's face. "Well, before I go can I just say that I'm sorry for the imminent demise of your eardrums," he said. "I happen to like your eardrums, you know."

"You're a charmer." There was a pause and Eric could hear some loud talking in the background that was too distorted to make out. Finally, Sam said, "I've been informed that Scot and I are going to text you updates."

Eric put the sports highlights on low in the background and ate a ham sandwich he ordered from room service. Despite what Sam said, the updates came exclusively from Scot. Eric surmised this not only because they made liberal use of phrases like _joeys the bestt!_ and _this blows chunks_ , but also because they weren't in the complete, grammatically correct sentences that made up Sam's usual texting style.

Just before Eric brushed his teeth and curled under the scratchy hotel sheets, Scot texted _ryan skored!!_. And, five minutes later, _WE WIN!!! 2-0!!_

Not long after, Sam managed to take control of his phone again. _We're headed home now,_ he texted. And then, just as Eric was falling asleep in the empty bed, _We miss you, you know._

 

 _Eric McNally, 2010_

"Oh my God, Eric, what is this?" Scot said and held up Eric's classic red-and-white-striped tie. "Where did you even buy this? You know what -- I don't care. Don't ever wear this in public again."

He ignored Eric's incoherent sputtering and tossed it on the carpet. Nula, who was curled comfortably on the bed, nodded her agreement.

"Traitor," Eric muttered at her.

Sam wandered in the bedroom with his hands wrapped around a large mug of coffee. "How's everything going?"

"I was all packed ten minutes ago," Eric said, glaring at Scot.

"You're going to be on _national TV_ ," Scot said.

"I'm already on TV."

"Yeah, but no one watches that."

"Oh, ouch," Nula said, looking at Eric sympathetically. Considering that Nula had long since abandoned Eric (and sports) to work for the national news desk at CTV, Eric did not find her reassuring.

"Sorry," Scot said, not looking sorry at all, "but come on, only sports people watch your show. This is the Olympics! Everyone will be watching. You have to be spectacular!"

"He is spectacular," Sam said, his hand coming up to rub the back of Eric's neck casually. Eric leaned reflexively into the warmth of the touch.

"Gross, stop it," Scot said, making a face.

"Well, if your flight's not till tomorrow morning," Nula said, "we could go shopping."

Scot looked up eagerly.

"We're not going shopping," Eric said firmly. "I'm playing a pick-up game in half an hour. Why are you even here?" he added to Nula.

"I invited her," Sam said. He smiled apologetically when Eric whipped his head around.

When Eric turned back, Nula was grinning at him, utterly shameless.

It took ten more minutes and the promise that they could all come back and empty out his entire suitcase if they wanted to before Eric got all three of them in the car and to the rink.

In the locker room, his coworkers razzed him about working the Olympic coverage. On the ice, Eric had five shots on goal and missed all of them.

Once upon a time, that would have nagged at him for days.

On the way out the door, in full view of everyone, he leaned over to cup Sam's flushed-pink cheek with his gloved hand and kiss him. Eric still didn't like public displays of affection, but he'd become addicted to the particular glow of affection in Sam's eyes whenever Eric surprised him.

"You were pretty good out there," Sam said. "Did you used to play pro or something?"

Sam smiled. Behind him, Scot was giving an impromptu rendition of "Defying Gravity" (tickets to _Wicked_ had been both the best and worst Christmas present idea Sam had ever had), and Nula was laughing delightedly. Behind them, Eric's coworkers and teammates were piling into cars and waving goodbye, their breath sending puffs of steam into the cold air.

"Or something" Eric said. And smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my utterly fabulous beta, somnolentblue. ♥


End file.
